


An Ambiguous Struggle

by PK_Cyanic



Series: Original Stories and Other Works [1]
Category: Original Work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-10
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:01:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27492364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PK_Cyanic/pseuds/PK_Cyanic
Summary: A young adult participates in a fighting tournament with large prizes at stake. Quickly, he finds himself way in over his head. But he refuses to concede just yet.
Series: Original Stories and Other Works [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2009095





	An Ambiguous Struggle

White. An almost blinding white, as far as the human eye could see. He had no idea where he was or what he had been doing; all he could think was how irritating the whiteness was to him. His eyes were barely open, and they seemed to struggle to continue.

His senses were failing him, and his sight was the first to pick up its slack and start to work again. Next came his ears, and from them he heard a blur of noises that were nothing short of inaudible and vague. The whiteness that occupied his vision began to focus itself, now being slowly replaced by the familiar blue of day. Recognizing the sun, he grew further antagonistic towards its existence, as he couldn’t muster up the energy to move out of its way.

“…six…”

A voice, someone almost familiar. Were they counting? If so, for what? He didn’t have the mental fortitude to pull off such a thought process right now, as he had come to realize the reason for his immobility; soreness and aching pains flowed throughout his entire body, rendering him motionless.

“…seven…”

He was able to conclude using what little reasoning he had that they were, in fact, counting. His fingers twitched, the joints sending a jolt of both frustration and pain to the rest of his hand, then to his arm. He noticed his breathing was labored and deep, barely capable of inhaling enough to remain conscious.

“…eight…”

Something inside of him flared up once he heard that number. Recollections of his situation slowly began to appear as little pieces in his mind, out of order. As he slowly began to make out the puzzle, his hearing grew clearer and more functional. A crowd of somewhere between five and five thousand were surrounding him. Something important was happening, and it was imperative that he get up. Despite the growing muscle strain, he continued to rise from the ground recklessly, struggling to support himself on the cracked and worn concrete.

“…nine…”

By now, he knew exactly what was going on. His motions became more determined, and he could make out two shadowy figures standing near him, one with his back turned as they walked away, and the other looking straight at him. His knees were buckling under his weight, unable to properly support his footing.

The figure that had been counting suddenly stopped.

The other figure had stopped walking and glared back with a look of resentment and shock.

He was standing, just barely, with several streams of red flowing down his arms, his legs, and his head.

His eyes were dead center on who he presumed was his opponent who, despite some minor cuts, seemed relatively unharmed.

His body attempted to straighten itself, and he positioned his arms just enough to resemble a fighting stance. He let out a slight laugh. The audience was as still as the air within the arena. He mustered just enough oxygen to taunt his opponent, knowing full well his difficulty to maintain consciousness.

“You’re going to have to try a lot harder than that.”

He stood there, staring down his opponent, looking for the slightest indication of movement. The audience faded away into the back of his thoughts, and all he could see was that vague outline masked by fogginess from his earlier injuries. His arms began to grow weary, the adrenaline keeping him going slowly dissipating as he waited.

Before he knew it, his feet were off the ground.

He spiraled to the other side of the arena, reeling in pain. Landing with a sharp thud, he laid motionless atop the cracked pavement.

He didn't see it. He was looking for it, but there wasn't any. No sign of an attack. No sign of even taking a step.

He was completely outmatched.

This time, getting back up proved significantly harder, as the gravity of the situation weighed him down more than the burning desire to close his eyes and pass out. His stomach felt almost hollow, as if all of its contents had been evaporated from the phantom blow that had demolished him in an instant. His breathing, originally ragged and coarse, was now sparse, barely grasping at the air. It felt as if his whole body was shaking from the hit, and despite his wishes, he could physically not pull himself together any faster than he already was. During his second attempt at standing with his sustained injuries, his mind was centered around that one instant, replaying the events continuously just to make sense of what had happened. 

It was more than that the figure was weaving from side to side—he seemed to almost weave in and out of focus entirely, completely escaping his eyesight momentarily before each hit. His fatigue had begun to distort his vision, and only now was he noticing it. The audience was roaring loudly at the impressive display by his opponent, but he did not hear a sound. While the ominous figure turned to his apparent fans and waved, his back turned without the slightest inclination of caution, the wounded soul began trying to control his breathing. He closed his eyes, raised his head towards that same sun that awoke him from his rest, and let out a deep breath. His injuries became more pronounced as he regained his composure, but he couldn’t afford to worry about them.

“It’s something I’ll just have to deal with afterwards…” he remarked, trying to distract himself from the strains that spanned his entire body. He stumbled back slightly, his legs giving out for a brief moment. He knew he wouldn’t be able to stand up a third time, no matter how he ended up on the ground. Once again looking at his opponent, he recognized the aura of sheer confidence emanating from him. To him, this match was already over, and celebrations might as well have been in order. 

Slowly, he walked towards the blurred figure, his arms refusing to raise themselves. Each step became more staggered than the last, his body unable to support his willpower. He pulled back his right arm, his bloodied fingers forming a fist in anticipation of his next attack. The figure remained stationary, his attention captured by the loving audience in front of him. 

Before long, the two were within grabbing distance of each other.

He knew this would very well be his only chance, and lunged forward, throwing all of his energy into this one singular strike, losing his balance in the process. 

Suddenly, a devastating punch crashed into his face, halting his momentum entirely. The figure had turned and launched a counterattack of his own, having expected his attempt to land a hit while he was distracted. The sound of the blow echoed throughout the arena, and hushed the rampant cheering of the audience. His legs began to finally crumble, and as he sunk to the floor, the figure smirked arrogantly.

A second reverberation sounded through the arena, leaving the audience bewildered. The referee looked on in awe, unable to believe what he was witnessing. 

His battered hand had found its way to the figure’s head, carrying all of that same determination that brought him to this moment with it. The shadow stumbled back in shock, wiping away both the blood of his weakened opponent and his own off of his face. 

He glared at the pitiful excuse for a fighter, still remaining in that same pose he dispatched that fateful strike. His head rose up, and for a brief moment, he snuck in one last defiant smile at the figure, before collapsing to the ground.

His vision returned to that same darkness from before, and his body relaxed. Finally, he was able to rest, gratified at his ability to make one last impression before succumbing to his wounds. Despite the outcome, he could not feel any sense of regret, as he had done all he could and just a little bit more.

The match was over.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------  
White. An almost blinding white, as far as the human eye could see. But this time, he knew exactly where he was. He felt just a tad too comfortable to be anywhere except for a hospital bed. Or dead. But he assumed it was a hospital bed. 

The room was empty, save for some complicated machinery he could only guess was used to keep him in a relatively uninjured state. The window was drawn open, and the sun cast its illuminating rays onto the room, seemingly to apologize for its rudeness just hours before in waking him up. 

He laughed to himself softly, remembering the events that would lead to his hospitalization; the one-sided brawl that he had forced himself to endure, despite the consequences. In retrospect, what he did could only really be described as suicidal; he could barely breathe, walk, or stand, yet he pressed on anyways. He both admired his resilience and mocked his recklessness.

“Well, there’s always next time."


End file.
